“Not so very old yet,” he said softly; “a woman is a woman, and it only depends upon how you play your cards.”
“But there is Harry. Ah, I must not reckon without him.”
Chapter Twenty Five.
Kate’s conductress had stopped at a door on the first floor, above which an old portrait hung, so that when the woman held the candle which she carried above the level of her head, the bodily and mentally weary girl felt that two people were peering cautiously at her, and she gladly entered the old-fashioned, handsomely-furnished room, and stood by the newly-lit fire, which, with the candles lit on the chimney-piece and dressing-table, gave it a cheerful welcoming aspect.
She could not have explained why, but the aspect of the woman would suggest dead leaves, and the saddened plaintive tone of her voice brought up the sighing of the wind in the windows of the old house at Northwood.
“I took some of the knobs of coal off, miss, for Becky always will put on too much,” said the woman plaintively, as she took her former attitude, holding the candle on high, and gazed at the new-comer. “I always say to her that when she gets married and pays for coals herself she’ll know what they cost, though I don’t know who’d marry her, I’m sure. I’ll put ’em back if you like.”
“There will be plenty of fire—none was needed,” said Kate, wearily. “I only want to rest.”
“Of course you do, miss,” said the woman, still watching her, with face wrinkled and eyes half closed. “And you needn’t be afraid of the bed. Everything’s as dry as a bone. Becky and me slep’ in it two nights ago. We sleep in a different bed every night so as to keep ’em all aired, as master’s very particular about the damp.”